It's Not Easy
by Deanadelyon
Summary: Life has settled for Holmes and Watson: The Work is interesting, John and Mary's relationship is thriving, and for once, life is peaceful. But when an accident threatens to tear this new life to pieces, it falls to Sherlock to keep it together. T for language and violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, and scenarios are the property of their respective copyright holders. The following story is presented without profit, for entertainment purposes only.**

**A/N: After a very long fic hiatus, I'm back! **

**This is my first-ever Sherlock fic, not beta-read. It will end up at about ten chapters, I think. I felt a bit shaky writing this chapter, but I am confident that I'll smooth out the bumps as the story continues.**

Enjoy!

**.~*~.**

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective of London, lay sprawled across the sofa. His eyes were closed, one foot rested on the floor, and his hands pressed palm-to-palm beneath his chin.

His most recent case had necessitated the study of a particularly rare and ancient language, and he felt it prudent to file it away for later use; simply put, his mind palace needed a bit of rearranging.

_Ding._

The man opened his eyes, glanced at the dining table. He considered answering his phone, but quickly dismissed the notion. He could deal with whoever-it-was later.

_Ding._

He opened his eyes again, and frowned irritably toward the kitchen. A persistent client then. Oh, how he _loathed _those.

He waited a moment, and then slowly closed his eyes again, slipping back into his mental filing cabinet and continuing his linguistic sorting.

_Ding. Ding._

"Oh, all _right, _shut _up!" _ he snapped, heaving himself to his feat and stomping over the coffee table and across the room.

With a huff, he unlocked his phone and accessed his messages, scrolling down with some force.

**From: Lestrade**

**10:32 P.M.**

Sherlock there's been an accident. Come 2 Barts, Mary critical.

**From: Lestrade**

**10:35 P.M.**

John in shock, unhurt.

**From: Lestrade**

**10:41 P.M. **

Sherlock I can't stay here you need to come now.

**From: Lestrade**

**10:42 P.M.**

It's bad. Sherlock, get here.

Sherlock stared at the screen with wide eyes. A creeping dread spread from the back of his skull down his spine, trickling like something viscous and cold. Mary. _John. _

He spun on his heel and rushed from the flat, out onto the street, his mind caught in a litany of _Mary, Mary, Mary, John, John, _John. He hailed a cab, the first he saw, and it had scarcely stopped before he was in the back seat, telling the driver to go, St. Bart's hospital, go, _go—_

The ride seemed impossibly long, the seconds blurring into one long and indistinct moment. Sherlock fought back the panic creeping up into his throat, clenched his hands, willing the cab to go _faster—_

"I'll send someone out to pay you, keep your hat on," Sherlock told the driver. The man spluttered in protest as he flung himself out of the car, running to the hospital and pushing through the line to the welcome desk.

"Sir, I'm afraid you'll have to wait at the back of the line," the receptionist intoned without so much as a blink.

"I'm looking for Morstan. Mary Morstan," Sherlock snapped, as though the woman hadn't spoken.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but—"

"_Sherlock!" _he turned to his right, found Lestrade walking toward him. He hurried forward and grasped the man by the arms.

"Lestrade. What's going on, what's happened?" He shook the man's shoulders a bit, and Lestrade pulled out of reach, glaring at him.

"About damn time, Sherlock, he's been sitting in that waiting room just about ready to—Sherlock, are those _house slippers?"_

"Yes, Lestrade, very good, you're truly an asset to the police force, now _what has happened?"_

"Sherlock. Calm down. Breathe." He sighed at Sherlock's glare. "There was a mugging, Sherlock. It was…" he took a breath before continuing. "The man had a gun out, and… well, he apparently didn't expect John to fight like he did, you know, and it went off."

"Mary?"

"Still critical, but Sherlock, it's not looking good." Sherlock nodded once, tightly, and Lestrade's mouth thinned into an odd grimace.

"Sherlock, they're on the third floor. She's in room 318; nobody's allowed in, not even John." Sherlock nodded, and started past Lestrade, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He shook it off, but stayed still, waiting for Lestrade to speak.

"Sherlock, I need you to be _kind _here, yeah? No deductions, no statistics, just—"

"Yes, Lestrade. Contrary to popular belief, I do in fact understand the emotional ramifications of having a loved one in danger." Lestrade's eyes softened, and he opened his mouth to reply, perhaps apologize; Sherlock continued over him, "She is… important to John. And she is a friend of mine." Lestrade nodded, and Sherlock hurried away without another word.

He found John sitting on the edge of a chair, a Styrofoam cup clutched in one hand, the other grasping his knee. He stared straight ahead, his expression blank and his face pale.

Sherlock walked forward, stepping heavily enough that John would hear him coming, and then sat in the chair next to him. John didn't turn, didn't look his way, didn't blink, didn't react at all.

"John." Nothing. "_John."_

The man turned his head, just slightly, and looked at Sherlock. He took a breath—_unsteady, shallow—_and spoke.

"You… you really don't need to be here, Sherlock. Could've stayed home."

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock replied automatically. John huffed out an exhale that, in a happier place, might have been a chuckle. He glanced at Sherlock again, a mixture of gratitude and anguish that dug into Sherlock's chest and twisted.

"Thank you," he said, so quietly that Sherlock nearly missed it.

Sherlock hummed. "You're welcome, John." John attempted a small grin, but it faltered and then crumpled. He looked away again, held his cup to his mouth but didn't drink.

"John—" Sherlock paused, his brow furrowed. "John, I'm—"

"Sorry?" his voice was hoarse, so quiet, and Sherlock winced. "No. No, Sherlock, you don't get to be sorry for this." Bitter. Guilt, then.

"John, it wasn't—"

"If the next couple of words out of your mouth are 'your fault'…" John's voice trailed off. He took a shaky breath, and started again. "I… I fought him." And John's voice wasn't supposed to be that quiet, that small, absolutely not, "I should've just let it fucking go. Should've let him take the damn bag..." his voice shook, and he stopped speaking.

Sherlock glanced over, observed the bright sheen in John's eyes, the tightness of his mouth, the rigidity of his back. He hesitated for only a moment before reaching out, grasping John's shoulder, holding firmly, _it's all fine, John._

John leaned toward him, just slightly, and Sherlock tightened his grip a little more. Leaned in, rested some of his weight there. Allowed himself that weakness.

Drawing strength from each other, they waited.

**.~*~.**

**A/N: I'm writing this story chapter-by-chapter, so any suggestions are welcome! :)**

**This will be a friendship fic, but other than that… I guess it'll go where my muse takes me.**

** Reviews are always very welcome. Thank you for reading.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, and scenarios are the property of their respective copyright holders. The following story is presented without profit, for entertainment purposes only.**

**A/N: I feel like I'm starting to get my momentum here. This chapter is basically more build up, but I'm much happier with it than I was with the last!**

** Please excuse my lack of medical knowledge.**

**With that out of the way… Please enjoy! :)**

**.~*~.**

Sherlock and John had been sitting in the waiting room for well over an hour. Their tense silence was broken only by an occasional sigh from John, an offer to fetch more tea from Sherlock.

John had declined, and Sherlock hadn't known what else to say.

Eventually, the doctor arrived, and after a quick assessment of the two men, addressed John.

"Mr. Watson?"

"Doctor, actually," John corrected automatically, and then blinked. "Mary. Mary, is she…"

"Stable." John exhaled and ducked his head, a relieved and slightly hysterical chuckle emerging. Sherlock, however, kept his gaze on the doctor, and frowned at him in disapproval. He was young, only been there for a year at best, and opened his mouth several times to speak, before Sherlock did it for him.

"She's in a coma, John." John turned and stared at him, eyes wide, before looking back to Mary's doctor. The man stood there, somewhat shocked by Sherlock's declaration.

"I—yes, Doctor, I'm very sorry, but…" His voice trailed off, and he addressed Sherlock, "Sir, how exactly did you—"

John cut him off, and through clenched jaws, asked, "When do you predict she'll be awake?"

The doctor visibly pulled himself together. "Considering her age, and physical condition, injury not withstanding, my best estimate is between sixteen and twenty hours."

"Edging the maximum safe timeframe a bit, isn't that?" John asked, and the doctor shifted a little.

"Yes, sir, it is, but I am quite confident that she will make a full recovery." John stared at him for a moment, and then his shoulders sagged. He nodded, thanked the doctor, and stood up.

"We can't have you visiting just yet—"

"Yes, thank you, Doctor," Sherlock said, not _too _harshly, and stood as well. The doctor bade them a good night, and left.

The pair stood in silence for a moment. John took a slow breath, and exhaled shakily.

"She'll be fine, John," Sherlock said, and was pleased with the conviction in the words.

John said nothing for a moment, and then turned to Sherlock. "Mind if I take the couch?"

"Not at all," Sherlock replied, and only let his smile show once John had turned and started to walk away. Sherlock fell into step beside him, and for the first time in some months, Holmes and Watson returned together to Baker Street.

.~.

When John awoke the following morning, Sherlock was already awake, sitting on the dining table, with folded legs and closed eyes.

Memory of the previous night slammed into his consciousness, and John moaned miserably, covering his face with his hands.

"Quiet," Sherlock said, too distracted to be a demand, but too direct to be a request. John slowly lowered his hands, and turned to look at Sherlock.

"Excuse me?"

"Please," Sherlock added, and continued to sit there. John grit his teeth and sat up, rubbing his eyes hard.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"The same thing I was doing last night, before Grant interrupted me."

John frowned, not sure which part of that sentence to address first. He started with the simplest. "Grant?"

"Inspector."

"Greg."

Sherlock flicked a dismissive hand. "Whatever. Before he sent me a series of _very _insistent texts, instructing me to travel halfway across town, I was organizing a certain regional dialect of…" Sherlock stopped speaking, and though his eyes were closed and the ambient temperature had not changed, he felt a slight chill. He opened his eyes to see John looking at him with the sort of expression that meant very unfortunate things for Sherlock. He braced himself for a stream of very loud cursing to be directed at him.

After several more seconds of silence, John seemed to droop a bit.

"Sorry to have inconvenienced you, Sherlock," he said, very quietly, before rising and making his way to the bathroom. Sherlock stared after him, and comprehension hit him all at once. Oh, how _stupid._

"John!" he called, jumping up and hurrying after him, "John, wait."

John turned and stared at him, and Sherlock was alarmed to see a faint reddening around the corners of his slightly wet eyes.

"Sherlock, my _fiancée _is in a _coma. _I'm sorry that your whatever it was—_whatever it was," _he repeated loudly, as Sherlock once again started to explain what he'd been doing, "was interrupted, but Sherlock, for once in your life could you _please _be a decent human being and realize that _not everything is about you?"_

Sherlock stared at him, mouth gaping uselessly. He took a sharp breath, and when he spoke, his voice sounded rather choked. "John, I didn't mean that." John snorted, the image of derision, and turned away. "_John." _Sherlock reached out and grabbed his shoulder, turning him back around. Whatever Sherlock's expression, it made John's soften from hurt to disappointment. "I _didn't_ mean it like that." John took a breath, and nodded.

"You never do, Sherlock." Sherlock winced slightly, and John tried a smile. "It's fine. Fine." A pause. "Sherlock, let _go, _I have to piss."

Sherlock blushed slightly and stepped back. He returned to the kitchen, and considered resuming his mind palace organization. Deciding that there were simply too many distractions, he set about making a pot of tea instead. In his attempt to find John's favorite Darjeeling (there was a tin _somewhere _ in the kitchen, there had to be), he didn't hear his return to the kitchen.

"Sherlock." Sherlock glanced at him briefly, and then continued rummaging through the cupboard.

"Yes?"

"Sherlock, listen to me. Are you listening?"

"Yes, John, listening, very carefully."

"I will only say this once, so you'd better be." A slight pause; whatever it was, it was difficult. Sherlock turned his head, and looked at John expectantly.

"Sherlock, my fiancée is in a coma. She might… she might never recover, and. I am… _fucking terrified _right now, and I need you to, please, just—"

"I'm making tea, John." Sherlock interrupted, continuing his rummaging for a moment and then standing with a triumphant cry. John blinked, offended at being cut off so completely.

"You're—" And then John saw it: his old favorite mug on the countertop, the orange tin of Darjeeling in Sherlock's hand, the mostly-clean kettle warming on the stove. He met Sherlock's eyes, and his own softened.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock replied, waving off his thanks and getting back to the tea. "Do sit down, John," he added after a moment, and John did so.

The two fell into a fairly comfortable silence, Sherlock bustling about the stove and John trying very hard not to think overmuch.

"Here you go," Sherlock said, placing John's mug before him. He turned back to the counter to prepare his own cup; without turning, he said, "John?"

"Mmhmm?"

"I know you're… worried. I am, too." He turned now, looked John in the eye. "I care about her, John. It matters to me, you know…" he gestured, somehow indicating the entire scenario at hand. John rewarded his efforts with a small but genuine grin.

"I know." Sherlock's face softened into a relieved smile, and he returned to his tea.

**.~*~.**

**A/N: Suggestions are very welcome, and I love seeing reviews! **

**Thanks for reading!**


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